"No argument here."
"And it could happen again."
A heavy pause. The curly-haired psychologist tapped the metal ashtray with his fingers. He has too many nervous habits, Rourke thought. The man's under stress. Jesus, I'm starting to think like him.
Silverman: "This problem owns you, Peter. For the rest of your life you'll have to worry when you take an aspirin tablet. Understand?"
Rourke nodded. "I understand." He had endured weeks of private counseling, A.A. and group therapy, plus voluntary hospitalization to get to this point. He wasn't about to blow it. "Noah, I've had enough. I mean that."
"I hope you do," Silverman said. Tap, tap. "You're exhausted, hyper-tense and dangerously fragile. Another experience like that could kill you."
"I believe you."
"Have the police made any progress?"
Rourke shrugged. "Some demented fan," he sad, sadly. "At least I think they're still operating under that assumption."
"They'll get him eventually."
"I hope so."
"We do have some more tests that we'd like to run. Are you certain it's not possible for you to return from time to time, just to cooperate with the program?"
Peter shook his head. "Sorry." Psychological testing made him extremely uncomfortable. One of the highly-trained specialists, given enough time, might stumble upon the truth, uncover his talent. He couldn't allow that.
"What will you do now, go home to Nevada?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure. Not right away."
"Well, I hope I never see you again." Silverman winked.
"The feeling's mutual, Noah."
The two men shook hands and it was over.
Peter Rourke had spent nearly three months at Templeton Hospital under close observation. He hadn't seen the outside world since discovering Dee Jenning's butchered corpse, but now he was a free man. Free of everything, that is, except himself.
Within days of his release, Peter moved into a cheap apartment complex and changed his phone number. He swapped his fancy car for a plain green Nova and some cash. He had royalties to live on, but no job; Gordie Easton had seen to that. The two men hadn't spoken. It would have been far too painful for them both.
All Rourke wanted was time to relax, think and decide what to do with the rest of his life. And to put Dee out of his mind. Meanwhile, the band members found a new producer. Bryan Friedheim just drifted away. The little engineer left Music Works for a better gig with EMI, and after a few well-intentioned but lame telephone conversations he simply stopped calling. There was nothing else to say.
Peter slept a great deal, as instructed. He stayed clear of alcohol or drugs of any kind. Time passed, without a single craving for alcohol or drugs, but the numb ache remained. He had anticipated violence — could he have done something to prevent it? That part of the pain was private; Rourke had to carry it alone, along with a stack of other guilts. He exercised relentlessly, read voraciously and tried to heal.
Sour Candy continued to record, but without Dee Jennings they were just another band. The group was destined to collapse after one turbulent tour. Meanwhile, Peter Rourke saw a new face in the mirror each morning, a troubled young man haunted by old ghosts and unanswered questions. At times he saw his Uncle Jeremy's stern features glaring back at him in disapproval. Two needs grew: To work again, and to go back to that place he'd been so eager to escape from — Two Trees. Nevada sunshine, flat, open land dotted with pale blue sage.
I will try to write a different kind of song, he thought. One that can't be twisted. Perhaps a lot of songs — who knows? But not here, not in California.
Home. Once again, the call to return was the only clear voice in his head. Soon it captured him completely. He hadn't been back since his eighteenth birthday, more than fifteen years before. Despite the sad memories he knew he'd awaken, Peter suddenly longed to see his Uncle's redwood cabin. His old friends, his past. He needed to make peace with it.
Los Angeles was cruel like the desert, but impossible to fathom. It was skyscrapers, crowded streets, neon lights and the stench of freeways.
Just do it. Why not now?
One August morning he hurriedly packed his guitar and some clothes, locked up the boring little apartment, jumped in his new car and ran like hell. He found himself swerving in and out of traffic, impatient to be out in the open.
The Hollywood Freeway looped in dizzying circles, but in time sent him on into the arms of the pitted and bumpy San Bernadino Freeway. He passed Pomona, Hemet, the outskirts, then the state line into Nevada. He ripped North and East, enjoying the wind in his hair and the warmth on his skin.
The desert greeted him warmly. He loved the smell of the sage and the squint-inducing brightness of the sunlight. He kept going, even turned on the radio until the California music dissolved into obnoxious static. He stopped to stretch, then took off again.
Less than three hundred miles from Two Trees, he stopped for gasoline. The convenience store was the only building for miles. For the first time, he noticed a car directly behind him. The driver was Latino, strikingly handsome. He drove past without looking and stopped by the pay phone. At the pump, Rourke felt a strange flutter of alarm. He brushed it away. Just nerves, that's all.
As a skinny, pock-marked kid began to scrape dead insects from his windshield, Rourke walked over towards the bubbled phone booth for a look at the far horizon. The handsome Latino was now inside the booth, gripping the receiver tightly. He seemed to be listening to someone, yet his lips were moving. Something about the man disturbed Peter, but he could not quite place it. Then it struck him: The man was reciting the lyrics to Peter's hit, "Devils Reign." What an odd coincidence.
"Hey, mister."
Rourke turned, only half caring. "Yeah?"
The kid scraped some squashed gunk from the tinted glass and winked. "What's the last thing goes through a bug's mind when it hits your car on the highway?"
Peter shook his head.
A proud grin. "Its asshole."
The olive-skinned man in the phone booth glanced at Rourke, but quickly looked away. He had stopped moving his lips. Another flicker? No, Jesus, take it easy.
"Asshole, get it?"
The kid seemed delighted with himself. He cackled and returned to work. Rourke eyed the mountains and replayed parts of his childhood on an inner screen. He sensed someone behind him and spun around.
"That you, Peter?"
Rourke tracked the familiar voice. The man was lean, about his own age. He wore faded jeans and a cheap red-and-white cowboy shirt. His features were partially obscured by a full beard and moustache, but the eyes gave him away. Inocent to a fault; childlike, direct and honest. Peter grinned and stepped forward, extending his hand.
"Well I'll be damned. Robert?"
They hugged. Robert Reiss produced a shy bark of restrained, nervous laughter. The two men looked each other over, remembering. Peter couldn't wipe the smile off his face.
"Good to see you, Bobby."
"Likewise."
Two beats, then: "What brings you up this way, Pete — slumming?"
"Escaping, I hope."
A penetrating look. "Explain that, please."
"Just had to get away," Rourke continued, uncomfortable. "Homesick, I guess. What about you? What's been happening?"
Robert scuffed the toe of one frayed boot in the gravel. "Guess it won't come as a shock that I became a minister."
"Nope, not hardly."
"Well, I travel a lot now, which I like. I get to take kids all around the country in a tour bus. You know, kids with no home or family. I show them places. It's neat work, man. But I don't get to visit Two Trees too often. I'm on my way back to see Dad and Beth, just as soon as I make a stop in Elko."
"They know you're coming?"
Robert shook his head. "I was out of touch for quite a while, so I'm planning on a big surprise."
"That's nice," Rourke said.
"I found Beth the prettiest dress in Salt Lake City
, and I got Dad another batch of those classic country records. Real whiny. He'll love 'em."
"Has the town changed a lot?"
"Getting smaller."
"Really?"
"There's almost nobody left, Pete. No one I feel close to anyway, except for Dad and Beth. Maybe Louise Polson."
"What about the Andersons?"
"Moved away."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope."
"Do the Wilsons still have their spread over in Clover Valley?"
"Gone. It's bizarre, man. Just about everybody we grew up around is splitting, like there's a plague or something. Maybe you shouldn't even go, Pete. It won't be the way you remembered."
Rourke considered turning around, but realized that there was nothing behind him he cared to see again. "Memories stay," he said softly. "Speaking of fixtures, how about Martoni and Urich?"
"Oh yeah," Robert chuckled. "They'll go down with the ship. Hey, ignore me. It might do you good to breathe some air you can't see."
The kid at the gas pump whistled that Rourke's car was ready. The Latin Lover was still on the phone, mumbling. Peter waved to the attendant. "Be right there."
Robert Reiss grinned. "Well…"
"It's good to see you, Bobby. We'll get together again in a few days, maybe. When you pull in to town."
"Listen," Robert said, unwilling to let go of the moment. "I hear you're really doing great. I've caught that Sour Candy single on the radio. My kids all love it."
Rourke blanched. "Thanks. Well, I should get moving. I'll still be around when you get there."
He started away. Robert paced him, still chatting. "I always wanted to ask you something. Did you lift that 666 stuff from the Bible, or the movies? Very hip."
Peter didn't answer at first. Finally said: "The movies, actually. I don't read the Bible much, as you'll recall."
Reiss impulsively placed one hand on Rourke's shoulder. A clumsy silence made Peter edgy. Don't read me correctly, Robert. Please.
"Has it been a downer lately, man?"
"You could say that."
"You seem like you're in a world of hurt. Can I help?"
"No, but thanks for the thought."
"These are rough times. The millenium was nothing special, but that doesn't prove anything. I'd like to talk to you about that when we get a chance. Maybe as soon as I'm back from Elko."
"Robert, you lost me."
"I know." Reiss stepped back. "I'll just say this. You've got the look of a soul that's being tested, Pete. Hang tough, choose careful and don't ever give up. Believe it or not, that's an honor. The Lord doesn't waste His time checking out those who haven't got much to offer."
Rourke shrugged indulgently. "Sure. I guess so."
"We'll talk," Robert said.
They exchanged goodbyes. Uncomfortable, but touched, Peter Rourke watched the preacher walk away. Then he got back into his car, gunned the engine and started the long haul up to Two Trees. Funny, he thought, I dreamed about him during my breakdown but now I couldn't wait to get away from him. I ran like hell from Nevada, and now I can't wait to get back. It's like something I promised I'd do, and I won't sleep right until I keep my word.
The highway sang a duet with his tires. Lazy buzzards circled above something small that lay dying in the low foothills.
Perhaps forty minutes later Rourke spotted a huge recreational vehicle parked by the side of the highway. A woman, dark haired and smallish, was waving for help. Flat tire. Rourke pulled over and rolled to a stop a few yards from the cab. Two children, an energetic young boy and a frail, slender teenaged girl, were bouncing a tennis ball against the side of the RV.
Rourke got out of the car and strolled over to their mother. She seemed in her middle thirties, with soft features and gentle eyes. He gave her a nod and his name. The woman smiled and introduced herself as Paula Baxter. She lit one cigarette from the butt of another.
"I've got to quit," she said, more to herself than to him. "I'm chain smoking. Thanks for stopping, Mr. Rourke."
"Peter," he said. "Tire?"
"Uh-huh. I can't seem to figure out how this jack works or I'd change it myself."
Rourke dropped to his knees and examined the tool. The boy seemed bright, energetic and exceptionally curious. He was maybe eight or nine years old. He rushed over to watch. His face bore a wide smattering of freckles and he had unruly brown hair. The sister, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, approached more cautiously. She seemed meek or perhaps a bit aloof, and looked very much like her mother.
"My son, Timmy, Peter Rourke. And this is my daughter Julie."
"Hi, kids."
Julie held back, but Timmy moved closer. "Hi Mr. Rourke," the boy said. "Nice to meetcha."
"Likewise," Peter smiled. "Dude. Are you going to give me a hand with this?"
Excitement. "Sure thing!"
Paula Baxter smoked one cigarette after another while Rourke guided Timmy through removing the hubcap and some of the lugs on his own. The job was done in a matter of minutes. Peter stayed for a can of cold soda. Paula seemed pleasant — simple and direct, although a bit jumpy — and he enjoyed the boy's company immensely, but his mind was elsewhere. He was going through the motions. He did learn that the Baxter clan was headed North, into Rourke's old territory. He suggested a few scenic stops and mentioned a favorite place to fish.
"Why don't you come with us, Mr. Rourke?" Timmy asked.
"I wish I could," Peter lied. "But I've got things to do."
"You can if you want to," the boy said. "See, my Daddy ran off with his secretary."
Paula Baxter cringed and studied her shoes. She was crimson with embarrassment. Peter grinned. "Some other time, maybe. I have a few things to do in town first."
Timmy looked disappointed. He hesitated. "Mr. Rourke, are there vampers in these woods?"
"Huh?"
"You know, vampers. Monster things that drink blood."
Paula shook her head ruefully. "Those trashy old comic books he reads. Horror stories his father gave him. He means vampires, Peter."
Rourke waved the thought away. "No, Timmy. We don't allow any vampires around Two Trees. It's against the law."
"Good. Because I know all about 'em. How they can't come in unless you invite 'em and they hypnotize people and stuff and have to be killed with a stake — WHAM! — right through the heart, just like that."
"Timmy," Paula said patiently, "how many times do I have to tell you there's no such thing as a vampire? That's just something somebody made up. It's all make-believe, not real."
"Oh, I know that Mom."
The boy didn't seem convinced. Rourke rose, stretched and scanned the horizon. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd better be on my way. How long do you plan on staying?"
"I don't really know. Maybe a few weeks."
"Well, then I'll probably see you again. It's a tiny town."
"Gee," Timmy gushed. "That would be great!"
"Goodbye," Julie said softly. It was the first time she'd spoken. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Julie. So long."
As Rourke drove away Paula Baxter glared at her son.
"Timmy?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
Innocence. Kids. Paula shrugged and lit another cigarette.
"Oh, never mind."
Julie, now that the nice young man had gone, became animated and whiny. In short, herself again. "Momma, I've got a headache. Are we going to sit here all day?"
Paula got behind the wheel. The kids blocked each other's way; delayed entering and staged an elaborate sight gag. Timmy ducked low, slipped under his sister's outstretched arms and tumbled over into the rear seat with a triumphant whoop. Julie followed, pouting. Their befuddled mother started the engine and pulled out onto the long stretch of empty highway.
Paula inhaled deeply and puffed white clouds of acrid smoke. Her fingers began to goose-step along the dashboard. Meanwhile her son slouched down, extended his short legs and opened a comic book.
"G
houls and Goblins? Oooh, how gross!"
Timmy ignored his sister. He was accustomed to the nagging and her superior attitude. His mother told him Julie only behaved this way because she wasn't well. That she needed their patience and understanding. She had made him promise to try his best, and so he did. Still, Julie often pushed her luck a little too far... Like now.
"You're a dummy," she declared. "You can't even say 'vampire' right. 'Vamper'? Jeez, how embarrassing."
Timmy flushed, but calmly turned the page. This was the neat part, when all the dead people started sitting up in their graves. He wished his sister would shut up so he could enjoy the scary stuff, the way he usually did. But Julie noticed the pink in his cheeks, and she had never been one to back away while she was winning.
"Creepo," she said. "You are so immature."
"Mom, make her cut it out."
Paula smoked and fiddled. She was far away, thinking about Karl. The way he'd walked out after sixteen years of marriage, most of them good. Why hadn't he talked about it? Shared? She'd never had a fighting chance. Bastard. He hadn't even said goodbye.
"Timmy," Julie whispered. "Do you still think there's something in your closet? Well, you know what I'm gonna do tonight?"
He turned the page, ignoring her, but the hair on his scalp quivered and came to attention. It was not a cool kind of scared.
"I think I'll just hide in the closet and wait until you're fast asleep and dreaming. Then I'll jump out and —"
"Mom! She's picking on me!"
Paula reacted swiftly. "That's enough, Julie," she snapped. "Lay off, or you'll end up with a spanking you won't forget."
Julie nodded politely. "All right, Mom." She was no fool. Besides, time was on her side.
Timmy focused on the story again, because now all the dead folks were walking around, real creepy, looking for the bad guy. He lingered on the ending, frame by frame, in no hurry to finish. The next tale, the worst one, was about a girl vamper that killed her whole family. It was
kinda fun, but awful spooky. Like that book by a guy named Douglas Clegg that a buddy at home had let him look through. Whew!
Julie elbowed him. "The closet," she whispered.
Timmy flinched, unable to control his reaction. Julie grinned and repeated the threat. "The closet, Timmy. I'll be hiding in the closet tonight."
Night of the Beast Page 7